Like I Roll

Food Of The Gods

Homework and school in general proved to be infinitely easier than I imagined. I'd always been gifted academically, and I'd always been open to learning new things. So, schoolwork completed, I hung off my bed listening to the music blaring out of my headphones.

' "Once I rose above the noise and confusion, Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion. I was souring ever higher, But I flew too high..." '

I mouthed the words and stared gloomily at my bedroom wall. Alice had, in an attempt to make me feel more at home, painted a muriel of the Sea onto all four of my walls. The swirling mass of blue, every shade imaginable entwined with streaks of shimmering silver... It was magnificent, but there was an edge of sadness. Yes, it was beautiful, but hauntingly so.

' " Masquerading as a man with a reason, My charade is the event of the season. But If I claim to be a wise man, It surely means that I don't know..." '

It was in times like these that I was at my darkest. When I had nothing to distract me or keep my occupied. I was left alone with nothing but my own thoughts. And therefore, the sea.

Suddenly I sick of this deep hole I had fallen in. I missed the sunlight. I missed the breeze.

So before I realised what I was doing, my feet had met the stairs and carried me out the front door.

*

It was late. But I'd learned almost as soon as we'd moved here me that the city never truly slept.

I still couldn't get used to the way the stars had almost completely disappeared. It was as if someone had painted over them so that only the best and brightest managed to shine through the thick barrier. But what of the smaller, fractionally dimmer sparks that littered the sky, unseen. Didn't they matter?

The pavement was illuminated by streetlamps, graffitied and flickering.

I didn't know where I was going. I didn't care. I just had to keep moving. If I could do that, I wouldn't have to think the thoughts that bought pain. I could just be.

Despite the late hour, several people littered the streets. I tried to avoid them and stuck to the lighter areas. I might have grown up in the country side, but that didn't been I was completely ignorant to the dangers of a city at night.

The air was pleasantly cool and I sucked it in hungrily, aching to clear my head.

A shout sounded, loud as a gunshot in the silence of the night. I looked up. Two men in their late twenties, I'd guessed, were fighting not 10 meters from where I was standing. Too late, I realised I stood outside a small corner pub. I went into a state as shock as I watched, frozen. There was nobody else on the street and they were killing each other. Flesh hit flesh and I woke out of my stupor when a horrible crack split the air.

I sprinted forward and jumped on the back of one of the men, knocking him off balance. Together we fell to the ground, myself just managing to disconnect myself and roll to the side before his body crushed me.

A stream of swear words erupted from his mouth as he fell onto his side. His adversary just stared, apparently too drunk to understand what was happening. After staring for a few more moments he grunted, and limped back into the pub. A sign above proclaimed it to be 'The Red Lion And Son'.

I glanced back at the other man. Now that he was standing I could see his face better, bloody as it was.

Shaggy, dirty blonde hair hung down to brush the days-old stubble that covered his chin. Two bright blue eyes peeked out from the mane of hair, looking surprising alert and intelligent despite his previous state of occupation. But the feature that stood out the most and caught my attention almost immidiately, was a long, jagged scar than ran from just beneath his left eye, running across the bridge of his nose and down past the edge of his lips, and trailed off the edge of his jaw out of my line of sight. At first I didn't realise what it was, past the dirt, blood and dust. But when it dawned on me, I reeled back in shock. This wasn't from some freak accident or car crash. It spoke tales of battles and fights; of anger and revenge, heartbreak and death. It was the very manifestation of pain.

He spat onto the ground, the liquid dark red with blood. As his eyes focused on me, his eyebrows rose and his expression darkened with anger.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He shouted, his voice deep, roughened by the spirits he'd obviously been consuming.

"Stopping you from killing that guy." I replied shortly, surprised at how steady my own voice sounded.

But now the adrenalin rush was dying down, I could see the stupidity of my own actions. I wasn't particularly strong, and I'd never been particularly athletic; except for swimming. There wasn't many other sports to do on your own in the middle of nowhere. If this violent man decided to take his anger out on me, I wouldn't be able to stop him. I should be running away, at full speed now I'd done my duty and nobody's life was in danger. But something held me there. Some kind of concern.

"That bastard deserved what was coming to him. But why the hell did you do that? You could've been killed! Are you insane?!" He barked.

"I couldn't have just left you to murder someone when I could have prevented it!" I argued, despite a part of me inside myself that agreed with him.

It had been an incredibly dim witted and ill thought out move. But I might have saved someone's life, so I refused to admit fault in my actions. My pride wouldn't allow it.

"What're you doing outside alone at this time of night anyway?" He questioned, scanning his eyes over me. "You must be, what, 12?"

"I'm almost 17." I spat, and then immidaitly regretted telling him anything about myself. This was a stranger, I reminded myself.

Whatever feeling I'd had to help him was long gone.

I just wanted to be back in my room. Not the room I'd been so anxious to leave earlier, but at my real home, with the Sea. A wave of longing almost made me fall on my knees. Something must have shown on my face because the man's face softened, just an inch. The expression was strange on his face, so full of harsh sharp lines.

"Look, I'm sorry for being an asshole. I'm Ambrose." He held out a hand which I glanced down at, briefly, before managing to stammer out an excuse before turning around and practically running all the way back to the house I now lived in, trying to hold in my tears.

It was all too much. I roughly wiped at the wet patches of my cheeks, attempting to stem the tide. But they kept falling, joining the rain in tracks down my face. I leaned against the side of a building and cried until there was nothing left.